


A Priest

by myhamsterisademon



Series: Tumblr Works [7]
Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, I'm not sorry, wow this is so angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-25 11:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: “Please teach me,” he says, his words broken by a shudder -- he trembles in the cold and sobs -- heartbroken, afraid, doubtful and alone.





	1. Chapter 1

“Please teach me,” he says, his words broken by a shudder -- he trembles in the cold and sobs -- heartbroken, afraid, doubtful and alone. “Please teach me,” he says, and the older man looks up from where he is digging and shoots him a glance, before going back to his work. “Please teach me,” the young man pleads again in a high whine, quivering in the corner in which he has curled himself against the merciless shivery wind.

“Teach you what?” the priest asks, his voice tired and sad.

“To forgive,” Edmond gasps in the dark -- miserable, sleepless and hopeless.

Faria looks at him again and shakes his head, so sadly and desperately that Edmond sobs again.

“I cannot teach that which you are not willing to learn by yourself,” the abbé answers quietly, so Edmond cries and weeps and shakes in the chilling cold of his prison-cell, forlorn and helpless and guilty and ashamed.

 

* * *

 

 

The abbé watches him carefully, in the way he always does, silent and wise, while Edmond digs and delves and pokes with short, sharp, automatic gestures -- his eyes fixed on his hands, glassy and unfocused, angry and desperate and loathing; his lips tightly pursed; his body stiff and tense -- an aura of pure hatred emanating from him, his mind lost in his revengeful, unforgiving dwellings.

It hurts more than he can say, an obsessive thought that curls around his head and screams into his mind at day and into his dreams at night -- not leaving him one moment of peace, whatever he tries, always following him, when he works, when he studies, when he sleeps.

“You must forgive,” Faria finally says, so softly and quietly that Edmond stops, breathing hard and erratically. “If you cannot forget -- you must forgive.”

“I can’t,” Edmond answers in a gasp, gritting his teeth and sweating in the hot, stifling air of the cell. “You do not understand.”

“Don’t I?” the abbé says softly.

The young man looks at him briefly and then bows his head in remorse, going back to his work.

“You must forgive,” Faria says again and Edmond shakes his head violently. “My child --”

“Do not rob me of my hate!” Edmond cries out, his voice breaking. “It is all I have! It is the only reason why I am still alive, now.”

“Is it?” the abbé asks quietly.

Edmond looks up at him, blushing in shame -- and suddenly his instruments slip from his hands and he falls to the ground and Edmond cries and weeps and sweats in the suffocating heat of his prison-cell, forlorn and helpless and guilty and ashamed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Please teach me,” the young man gasps in the dark, his heart hammering in his chest, afraid of something hidden in the shadows, something buried in the recesses of his mind, something that he cannot see, cannot describe, cannot tell – and thus only more terrifying.

“Teach you what?” the old man asks tiredly. They both know where this pattern of answers and questions and doubts is taking them; to an endless circle of ambiguity and fear and mistrust – but the priest still replies every time, because he knows that Edmond needs to keep his mind occupied, against the harrowing, bottomless pit of despair he is slowly but unfailingly slipping into.

“Teach me how to believe,” the young man says. “Teach me –” he coughs – “teach me how to believe again.”  

“In what?” the priest says, already knowing what the answer will be.

“In God,” Edmond murmurs, his voice quivering when he pronounces the name of God – almost as if it hurts him to do so – almost as if he fears to utter that word.

“You already do,” the abbé answers, keeping his eyes closed.

“I do not,” the young man protests, in a high-pitched whine – broken by a grief-stricken sob. “I no longer believe in God, Faria,” he says, his voice desperate and anguished and frantic, “and I do not know what is worse, I do not know what is more agonising, tell me, what is worse – to be perfectly, utterly alone, not even to have the comfort and the illusion of faith; or to believe in God but knowing that He has abandoned you? I no longer believe in God, priest, and I am afraid.”

Faria does not talk for a long, long time – but Edmond never speaks, he only waits, faithful and patient.

“It does not matter,” the abbé finally says, slowly and plainly, “it does not matter whether you believe in Him or whether you do not. He believes in you.”

“And how do you know?” Edmond asks, his voice cracking – and he gasps, for a second, and, when he has caught his breath again, Faria speaks.

“Why would He not?” he says softly, so Edmond cries and weeps and sobs in the darkness of his prison-cell, frightened and lonely and afraid of himself but hopeful.


End file.
